


passer iagoensis

by greenery



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slice of Life, a bit corny towards the end sorry not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenery/pseuds/greenery
Summary: Night falls on the Beagle and Henry Peglar has just finished reading his very first novel.Set in 1832.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	passer iagoensis

The waves roll softly against the _Beagle’s_ hull and as he makes his way through the gently swaying corridor, Henry realises he feels at peace. The feeling isn’t all that different from last week or last month, so he reckons he must have been at peace for a while now, but this is the moment when it finally, suddenly washes over him, or dawns on him, or whatever sappy metaphor comes to mind. He’s a topsail midshipman, likely to be promoted soon, he’s on a journey around the globe with two of the Empire’s most brilliant scientists (Henry is certain of that, though back at home people appear to be a tad more skeptical), and he has just finished reading his very first novel.

The Misfortunes of Elphin is not a thick book, on the contrary, but all the Welsh lore he is not very familiar with, aside from the small and cramped print, has brought him to the verge of tossing the book overboard more than once. But every time this happened, he would wondrously stumble upon a particularly jaunty or poetic line that made him reconsider and continue the battle.

The book has cost him many a sleepless night and, although he would never admit that to John, the most patient teacher he has ever had, yes, some tears of frustration have quietly been wept. But it is done, the mountain conquered, and he cannot wait to take on the next one.

But before diving headfirst into the next drama or adventure or romance, he has to make his report to Captain FitzRoy. The _Beagle_ is a smallish brig, they’re barely 60 men, and when the time allows, FitzRoy insists on hearing all the reports personally. Henry’s watch, the last dog watch, has been quiet and would have been boring, had it not been for The Misfortunes of Elphin. As he raises his arm to knock at the great cabin’s door he notices the weight of the little book in his pocket, and there it is again, that feeling of peace, but excitement too, because he has the whole night off, and if John is free as well, they could start the next story right away, he has so much to catch up on.

“Come in!” As usual, the captain’s voice is calm but not lacking that peculiar hint of authority that seems exclusive to people in charge.

Henry salutes before he has even entered the amber-lit room completely and closes the door behind him. “I’ve come to make my report, sir,” he explains and takes his hat off.

“Ah, Mr Peglar. Good to see you. From your smile I take the watch went well?”

“Yes, sir. Calm and no unusual occurrences.” He looks around the cabin that really doesn’t deserve the name great. The single window in the wood-panelled hull is open and he can hear the sea and the unnerving song of cicadas inhabiting the largest of the Cape Verde islands, São Tiago. They’ve anchored close to the island in order to be able to sleep and eat in the relative comfort of the Beagle while also not wasting any time on unnecessarily long passages between ship and land. A threadbare linen curtain shields the cabin from the still tropical warmth outside and and saves dozens of moths and other insects from throwing themselves into the oil lamps. FitzRoy sits by the window in his shirtsleeves, an additional candle next to him and an open book in his lap.

While Henry still fights the urge to ask what he is reading, the captain closes the book. “That is good to hear. So you’re in high spirits, I take it?”

“I am, sir. I am enjoying the voyage immensely.”

“And how’s your reading getting along?” comes Darwin’s low voice from the right side of the cabin and Henry slowly turns around, not sure how to react or what to say. How do they know? But this is silly, reading is not a sin, and during his time off he is free to do as he pleases. Although admittedly this watch hasn’t been the first one he has spent in the company of Elphin.

In the corner, Darwin has squeezed his lanky frame onto a chair that appears much to small for him, wedged between the wall and a chessboard, opposite of—

“John?”

“No worries, Mr Peglar,” continues Darwin before John can even open his mouth. “Mr Bridgens here has told me everything about your literary endeavours, and the captain and I don’t mind at all.”

“Not that Mr Darwin would have a say in these matters, but he is right, Mr Peglar. We all know how endless a watch can be.”

Henry is still not sure what exactly is going on. “I— thank you, sirs,” he manages, his voice surprisingly steady.

“So what have you been reading tonight?” Darwin asks, and Henry can’t take his eyes off of John, sitting there, in the captain's cabin, playing chess with Charles Darwin and a serene smile on his face, apparently lost deep in the game. Henry flinches when he suddenly looks up and their eyes meet.

“The Misfortunes of Elphin, sir,” he says finally, and Darwin simply nods, while FitzRoy exclaims a recognising _Aha!_

“Have you read it, sir?” Henry asks, something he would never have dared with any of the other captains he has served under, but they have travelled together for over a year now, and FitzRoy is only a few years older than him, and is there a more unassuming question than asking someone whether they have read a certain book?

The captain doesn’t seem to mind. “I have, actually. Some time ago. You should give it a try, Charles, it debunks magic as nothing more than natural philosophy.”

“I think I’m fine,” murmurs Darwin and runs a hand through his wispy blond hair, leaving the pattern of strands he has carefully placed to hide the fact that he his already balding at twenty-three in disarray.

The silence that follows is utterly uncomfortable at best and Henry decides to retreat. He attempts to decipher John’s expression one last time, but to no avail. “Well then, I will be—,” he murmurs and takes a few steps back towards the door.

FitzRoy eventually looks up from the book he has opened again. “Thank you, Mr Peglar. And should you ever desire a book that your Mr Bridgens cannot obtain for you, don’t hesitate to ask me. We have quite the extensive library, don’t we, Charles?”

“Indeed.”

“That is most kind, sirs,” Henry says and puts his hat back on, relieved to finally leave behind the cabin’s strange atmosphere.

The captain and his naturalist have become somewhat notorious for their quarrels, although Henry is never quite sure to what extent they actually mean it, as the two men get along just fine most of the time and the arguments, if you can call them that, seem to be more of a habit, maybe out of boredom or some other unspoken tension.

After having shut the door, Henry stays in the corridor for a moment and quietly lets go of a breath. He notices the familiar warmth of his ears being flushed and wishes they weren’t. Muffled, he can hear the captain’s voice through the door.

“Elphin! Good Lord, Mr Bridgens, shouldn’t you have started with something less … demanding?”

A short silence follows and Henry can practically see the myriad of lines appearing on John’s forehead, before he carefully replies, “In the beginning I thought so too, sir, but we have actually found it to be the perfect amount of demanding. And he has finished it remarkably fast.”

Heny cannot suppress a smile, his ear now pretty much pressed against the door, careful no to make a sound.

“I suppose so,” says FitzRoy slowly, and the scratch of his chair on the wooden planks makes Harry flinch. But no footsteps appear to come closer to him, and after a moment Darwin speaks again, but his voice is so low that Henry struggles to make out all the words.

“…what … going to … him next?”

“I had thought about Frankenstein,” John says and Henry has to press a hand to his mouth as not to gasp.

“What, The Modern Prometheus?” That’s FitzRoy again.

“The one, sir. Is that not all right?”

The captain appears to be pacing around the cabin now. “I don’t know, I just think it’s—”

“Highly entertaining and probably far more interesting than The Misfortunes of Elphin,” interrupts him Darwin.

“May be so, I just find it rather blasphemous at times, is all. But I’m sure you know what is best for him, Mr Bridgens.”

“Thank you, sir, I like to think I do.”

The air in the narrow corridor feels a lot more tropical suddenly.

“—and besides,” continues FitzRoy, but before he can finish is cut short again by Darwin, this time in form of a high pitched shriek.

“THERE! No, don’t move!”

“Charles, I don’t understand, what—”

“Do. Not. Make. A. Goddamn. Move,” Darwin declares, accentuating every word as if that would make matters any clearer.

Without wasting a second thought on why this is not his brightest idea, Henry tears the door open again and stumbles into the room.

“Peglar! What are you still doing here?!”

“I’m sorry Captain, I just heard a scream and had to—”

“Peglar you fool!” cries Darwin, earning himself a grim look from John, and making a vague but agitated gesture into the direction of the window. “You’ve roused it!”

Now Henry sees the brown little bird that must somehow have slipped through the gap between curtain and window frame, maybe in search of food, maybe drawn in by the lights, what does it matter, it’s in here now, nervously flattering about the cabin like a wind-up toy.

“It’s an Iago sparrow,” explains Darwin and slowly moves towards the bird that has settled on the backrest of FitzRoy’s armchair for a second, dangerously close to the window. “I need it, it mustn’t escape.”

They react almost simultaneously.

While John lunges across the room to shut the window, Henry rips the curtain off its frail rod.

“Yes, yes!” cries Darwin, “Brilliant idea!”

“The door!” FitzRoy rather uncaptainlike leaps towards the cabin door Henry has left wide open and slams it shut.

“Forget the door! The sparrow!”

“Well, with the door open like that, your sparrow will soon be—”

“Where is it?” Henry asks into the room and for a moment, everyone halts — the captain still by the door, only just getting into his stride, Darwin in the middle of the cabin, his watery eyes scanning every piece of furniture, and John still by the window, his gaze resting on Henry, for whatever reason.

“Where’s the bird?” Henry repeats a little breathless.

It’s Darwin who spots it first. “There, the chessboard! Don’t move, don’t move!”

“Then how am I supposed to—”

“ _You_ may move, Peglar. But slowly. Look, it’s resting, it’s exhausted. Move a little closer, then throw the cloth over its head.”

Henry does as he is told, a drip of sweat running down his back, holding the curtain up in front of him as if to shield from an attack that will never come, stalking step by step toward the chessboard on which the sparrow is resting like an unusually dull-looking dragon amidst a battlefield of fallen knights and pawns.

“Good, Peglar, good. Slowly now.”

When he is close enough, Henry looks the bird in the eye, unsure what he expects to see there — resignation, surrender? But of course there’s nothing in the beady black eyes, because it’s just a bird, a tiny bird currently being ruled by instinct and little else.

“Now!” cries Darwin out of nowhere, and his booming voice makes both Henry and the sparrow jump, but Henry is faster and before the bird can even fully spread its wings, he throws the curtain, sending some of the chess pieces flying, but trapping its victim.  
Henry feels a pang of guilt when he sees the tiny defenseless silhouette struggling under the linen, it reminds him of a wee ghost, unable to get off the ground for good. These are its last minutes on this earth and all because it had been too curious for a split second. But isn’t that exactly what they are doing here on this brig — being curious and snooping around in a strange corner of the world.

“Excellent!” Darwin jovially pats his shoulder and wraps the curtain tight around the little form.

“That was an impressive throw, Mr Peglar. Have you done this before?” asks FitzRoy as he rolls down his sleeves.

Henry hesitates for a moment. “I have a lady at home, sirs, and a few years back I gave her two canary birds. Against the silence.”

“Well, good thing you did,” says Darwin, “My colleagues in London will be most excited to get their hands on this pretty specimen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare it for the journey back to England.” He makes for the door and turns around one last time, tipping an imaginary hat. “Thank you, Peglar. Mr Bridgens.”

Henry and John nod and watch as the naturalist hurries out of the cabin, followed closely by a suddenly irritated FitzRoy.

“We have no space for unplanned specimens, Charles. It’s been barely a year and the storage is already overflowing!”

“There’s always room for science, Robert,” Darwin replies surprisingly calm, obviously satisfied with today’s catch.

Through the half-open door Henry watches until they disappear around the corner and, making sure they are really gone, throws himself into the captain’s chair, one leg dangling over the armrest. “That looked just like any plain old house sparrow, if you ask me. I’ve seen finer ones in London.”

John leaves the door ajar and chuckles quietly. “It did indeed, but trust me when I tell you that Mr Darwin knows his birds.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.”

“Why were you eavesdropping, Henry?” John asks casually as he begins to move the furniture around, slowly putting the room back into its former order.

Henry feels his ears flush again, goddamnit, and suddenly picking up the scattered chess pieces seems like an excellent opportunity to hide his face.

_I longed to hear you talk about me, defend me, but I didn’t even realise until I stood there and you did._

“I don’t know,” he says finally, kneeling on the floor and examining the Queen in his hand. “I guess it was just curiosity. Are we really going to read Frankenstein?”

“Not if you don’t want to, of course.”

“I would love to,” Henry exclaims, back on his feet now, hands full of wooden figurines.

The smile John gives him feels weirdly personal, almost intimate, and Henry loves how it sincerely lights up his whole face. He loves how John is never patronising and always shares Henry’s enthusiasm, even about things that must be old hat to him. He’s never known so calm a man, calm but not quiet, and by no means boring. Henry realises that he cherishes their evening readings over everything.  
He would never say that out loud, of course, but he has to say something, and Frankenstein seems like a safe enough subject. “I hear it’s partly set in the Arctic?”

“Oh yes, it is,” says John, adjusting an oil painting of a kitschy nautical scene on the wall. “But that’s only a fracture of the narrative, I think you will enjoy the rest just as much.”

Thoughtfully, Henry begins to set the pieces up on the chessboard. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Arctic. A proper adventure.”

“What, and this is not?” John raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, but— yes. But there’s no ice, and we’re just collecting plants and birds all day, can this be all?”

“Tell me, Harry, how old are you again?”

“Twenty-five.”

“See, you’ve plenty of years ahead of you. Plenty of years to join an expedition to the very North or very South of this planet and make history.”

Henry gets up and walks over to the window. The night is still clear, the wind soft, and he can see the shine of torches illuminating the nearby beach. “Might as well discover the Passage.”

John laughs and it makes Henry’s heart jump. “Sure, Henry Peter Peglar might as well discover the Northwest Passage!” He puts a had on Henry’s back. “You do whatever you have to, but please remember your old Mr Bridgens once you’re famous.”

Henry shakes the hand off and doesn’t know why, but when he sees the dismay in John’s dark eyes, he’s quick to say, “How could I forget the man who taught me to think?”

“Oh, that sounds very—”

“No, John,” Henry rabs his hand and holds it tight. “You taught me to exist. I was nothing before, but now that I can write I will be remembered.”

John smiles again. “Sounds almost poetic when you say it like—”

The door is flung open again and Henry lets John’s hand drop as if he has suddenly burned himself.

“This fool!” cries FitzRoy as he storms into the cabin. “One should really think he would know how to do this by now—blood everywhere! Peglar! What are you still doing here?”

“I—”

“He was just helping me to place everything back where it belongs, sir.”

The captain collapses into his chair. “Very good, thank you.” He gestures towards the corridor. “But you may go now, Mr Peglar. Good night, and thank you again for your help.”

“Why, certainly, sir,” Henry nods. “Good night, Captain. Good night, Mr Bridgens.”

He leaves the room for the second time this evening, pretending not to see the way John stretches his hand. This time he heads straight to the fo’c’sle. He may not have gotten his hands on the new book yet, but the night is still young and he has a whole stack of writing paper waiting for him in his chest. Waiting to be written. He will be remembered.

And there it is again.  
Peace.

**Author's Note:**

> fill for the terror bingo prompt “curtain”
> 
> oh boy have i meddled with the fictional and historical timelines here
> 
> should you want to read more about Darwin and Fitzroy i cannot recommend This Thing of Darkness by Harry Thompson enough, in my humble opinion it’s nothing short of brilliant  
> as usual, thanks for reading <3


End file.
